


Seduction of the Innocent

by motoroilfreeway



Series: Erotomania [3]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Exploitation, Child Labor, Dubious Consent, Forced Labor, Incest, Killings, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Mafia AU, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Stockholm Syndrome, Tragedy, child prostitution, dub-con, non-con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-06-03 05:05:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motoroilfreeway/pseuds/motoroilfreeway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was love at first sight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Now that Guilty Pleasure is [almost] over, I think its high time I post this...I think. This fic is different because this was written not because I got a random prompt but because this shit flashed in my mind out of nowhere and screamed "WRITE ME" like my usual fics. Basically what I'm trying to say is that this wrote itself...I'm merely a vessel.
> 
> Warnings for dark themes like rape, [child] prostitution, mafia/gangs, Stockholm, dubious consent, sex with a child, child abuse, incest, Arthur being a pedophile in every sense of the word, and the author knowing nothing about how gangs like these work so I’m gonna base this on the type of government my friends’ gang has (and then some). (don’t ask)
> 
> Portugal will be called Salvatore (or “Sally”, courtesy of UK) in this au and he calls UK “Boss”

     Arthur looks up from his monitor as the door to his home office opens, Sally striding in. For a moment he was annoyed, today was supposed to be spent for his “alone time”, which means he will be taking a break from work and managing the organisation and instead waste the day away in the comfort of his home with a desktop and decent internet for browsing… _things_.

Then Sally unceremoniously dumps a manila folder on his desk, messing his neatly stacked references sheets. Arthur knows that the other has done that on purpose to rile him up for no reason but he can’t help but eye the manila folder with apparent disgust and unmasked irritation as he gives the man a level stare, silently asking for an explanation.

At the look, Sally says, “A short report on the spoils of war that we recently got after ambushing an establishment ran by the Bonnefoys, Sir.”

Arthur has appeared to be listening to his report half-heartedly, chin resting on a palm, eyes half-lidded and disinterested as he nods and hums, pretending to listen as he lifts the manila folder with his fore finger and thumb on its edge, as if the thing would somehow inflict disease on him. He shoves it to the corner of his table, disgust written all over his face.

When Sally finishes, Arthur drones, “and how is it my concern? You of all people should know what to do with the spoils. It’s up to you on how you split them to your men, I don’t care,” he sighs, “why do you think I have a fucking right-hand man, Sally?”

Sally says nothing to the rebuke and instead grabs the manila folder and flips it open. Inside shows pictures of children, mostly below twelve years of age, dirt and grime covering their faces and the rest of their bodies.

“They’re _spoils of war_ , sir.”

There is the look of satisfaction that shone behind Sally’s dark eyes as he watched his superior silently flip through the pictures, eyes alight as they hungrily ran through every face. He stops on one, brows furrowed and a finger reaching out to touch the image, he mutters, “Show me.”

 

     The establishment, as they call it, was located in a small town not too far away from the city. The place was disguised as an orphanage, shown to have regular visiting childless couples to not arise suspicions from the people nearby.

No one seems to have noticed a van regularly leaving and entering from morning to noon, carrying the children in and out the so-called orphanage to work for their meals and lodging.

Seeing the children obediently line up upon Sally’s call doesn’t surprise Arthur. These kids had been conditioned to follow orders or be beaten long before an enemy gang took over. Being taken over does not mean salvation, judge a new system of law and order. Arthur scoffs at the irony of Sally---Salvatore---being the man behind the operation.

Aside from the dirt and bruises hidden behind their clothes, Arthur was surprised to note that none of these kids were missing a limb or an eye. Noticing his surprise, Sally who is not a few steps behind him, as sign of respect, supplies, “It’s not as hard for the children to gather their daily quota in the city as it was in other areas.” A beat of silence, then he adds, reluctance present in his voice, “They aren’t just used to beg for money in the city.”

 _(Not to mention that its Bonnefoy_. Arthur wanted to roll his eyes. Bonnefoy is too soft for his own good. That’s what makes him and his entire family oh-so easy to break. He darkly chuckles, remembering the good times. Yes, they are.)

“Ah, so that’s it,” Arthur replies, mind already flying to different possibilities.

“Has any of them confessed who engage in the business?”

“Just the girls,” Arthur’s nose crinkles at this. He gives the boys a look that they didn’t even react to, “What a waste, I bet the boys could’ve brought them extra income,”

Sally’s deadpan had gotten worse, “Of course you would say that, Boss,” he comments in disgust that made the rest of Arthur’s men flinch. Not that Arthur can blame them. Anyone who dared to overstep the bounds gets shot in the head on the spot, no warnings. The method never failed him before in keeping his men in line and his policies followed to a tee, so Arthur sees no problem in doing it every time just to remind his men that he’s still the Boss. Except for Sally, of course. Heh.

Arthur continues to look at the children’s faces closely, examining their eyes, the way the crinkle in the light or the way their faces twitch when they almost feel the warmth of his skin so close to theirs. A dark haired girl can’t help but avert her brown eyes, his gaze too unbearable as it was almost…intimate. Arthur smiles at her and her face reddens.

After the blushing girl, it seems that the rest of them had grown bold, smiling at Arthur suggestively and twirling their hair shyly. Just the girls though, Arthur remarked silently to himself, somewhat disappointed that the boys weren’t as bold.

It wasn’t like the children doesn’t want to gather his attention, because then he may take one of them home and be exempted from labor. They could spend all day doing nothing and sleep in a soft big bed with three full meals a day and all they must do is satisfy him in any way he wants. For children like them who had been exposed to such life as this, they wouldn’t mind opening their legs just to get by.

(Well, except for the boys, again.)

Seeing the little girls show their consent to whatever Arthur may want them for, he can’t help but smile and talk to each one of them, kissing the back of their little hands afterwards that makes them giggle. Salvatore just stood still in his spot, the desire to roll his eyes is strong but he does not fall to temptation. He’s the boss’ right-hand man and he cannot afford a distraction, after all.

Sally along with the rest of the men were sure that their boss would probably go for any of the girls---with how eager they seem to be to open their legs for him, but to their surprise, Arthur stops at a little boy that had appeared to be like he rolled all over a puddle of mud before they assembled with how dirty he is.

Arthur does not seem to mind as he gently touches the boy’s shoulder, making the little thing flinch and apprehend Arthur with wary bright eyes.

“Hello, I’m Arthur,” He tells the boy, voice low but welcoming. Warm and open.

The boy doesn’t say anything and instead spits at Arthur’s face, a menacing scowl etched on that dirty little face.

 

Salvatore knows how much of a germaphobic freak his Boss is, so he knows it took a lot of feat for his Boss to hold his ground and continue smiling nicely at the little boy, the frothy mucus still stuck to his cheek, slowly running down. He laughed, amused and mussed the boy’s wet, greasy hair. “I have a feeling we’ll get along well,”

“…Alfred,” one the kids in the line says.

“Alfred,” Arthur says, his voice in love as he lets the child’s name roll on his tongue.

Salvatore would soon tell his men and co-workers that it was love at first sight.

 

     It took a lot of effort from the children to drag the Boss’ kid into a bath. Salvatore silently muses that with strength like that, the kid had potential and that maybe he can take the kid under his wing to train after the Boss got tired of him.

It took a few hours before the kids present the boy---his name is Alfred, the Boss reminds Salvatore---to the Boss again, now clean and properly groomed. His clothes are clean though not the kind that passes the Boss’ standard, but getting him an entire wardrobe in accord to the Boss’ tastes would not be a problem. The Boss was probably looking forward to the shopping already, thinking of clothes that would suit his little boy best---and how nice they would look dangling on his limbs when he try to undress him later tonight, but a feisty kid like that, Salvatore thinks that the Boss will have to spend a lot of time sweetening up the kid first before he convinces him to willingly open his legs for him.

One of the things the Boss hated was taking unwilling children, after all. Doesn’t matter if they’re pretty or what, if they said no, he’ll back off, no questions asked.

Doesn’t mean he’s not below _persuading_ them to change their minds of course.

It was no surprise to see the boy---Alfred, Salvatore reminds himself lest the Boss tell him again---scoot as far away as possible from where the Boss sat in the back of the car. The Boss appeared hurt and if it were anyone else, it wouldn’t have been hard to believe that he truly was but Salvatore grew up with this man and he knows that the Boss is one cold son of a bitch and a _very_ good actor.

Little Alfred definitely has no idea what kind of person he just caught the interest of, not that Salvatore can blame the kid for, after all, no one has truly seen the Boss’ face and known that he is the man behind the group that controls the third of the city and lived to tell the tale.

Those in the ranks below who got to see him were hand-picked by Salvatore himself, too untrusting of his own people to secure the safety of the Boss. If you want something to be done right, do it yourself, as how the Boss would always tell him.

Salvatore willed himself not to flinch when he felt small hands grasp his shirt, tiny fists clenching the expensive cloth of his suit jacket. He watches his Boss stare at him, eyes burning with jealousy. He gives a blank stare in return, _as if I’m like you_ , he wanted to tell him.

They bring Alfred to one of Arthur’s penthouses scattered across the city, posing as a company with the topmost floor being heavily guarded and serving as a safe house.

Though they’re more like his special place to bring his children to, so they can have the view of the city below them and space for them to run around and play whenever he’s not around to occupy their time.

The Boss loved his children like that.

Until he would either grew bored with them or they grow old enough to grow hairs in places they used to be smooth in and develop breasts (for females) or deep voices (for males), that is.

Salvatore had been told that Alfred is eight years old, so it will take some time before then, unless of course, the boy turns out to be a bore and the Boss decides to hand him over to Salvatore too soon and let him “do whatever he wanted with him”.

By that Salvatore would take the kid in, teach him things and make him useful to the organisation.

When he and the Boss strolled into the building, the Boss gets greetings and some coos from the employees at the sight of Alfred being carried by Salvatore since the boy refused to let go of Salvatore’s jacket like his life depends on it. He pointedly ignores the looks of jealousy being shot at him by the Boss.

Questions like “is he the Boss’ son? He’s so adorable!”

By “Boss”, they meant the company’s CEO, not as in a mob boss like how Salvatore would always choose to address the man despite the continued insistence to be called by his first name.

(Salvatore was raised by the Boss’ father to serve the family, and after his death was expected to be given to the next in line as a form of inheritance and so Salvatore has always found it wrong to call the man who owned his being anything else but.)

 

     Prior to the Boss’ orders, the penthouse was prepared for Alfred’s arrival.

The moment they enter the door, Salvatore drops the chid without ceremony on the cold marble floor, surprising the child and in turn letting go of Salvatore’s suit jacket. He gets a look of reprimand from the Boss when the boy squeaks in pain but he managed to make the boy let go of him so he ignores the look.

He immediately backs away to walk behind the Boss again, since he’s no longer carrying the boy, and to make sure that the boy won’t manage to cling to him again. It’s troublesome.

It must’ve finally sunk in to the child that he was finally alone with the Boss (though Salvatore was just right behind him, keeping watch of the door as was his usual job) because he started crying and backing away from the Boss’ smile.

Understandable. He pities the boy. Or maybe not. He can’t really tell.

His tears seemed to have pulled at the Boss’ heartstrings, as the man went down on his knees to level with the boy’s eyes and coo, “It’s alright, I won’t do anything.”

At this point Salvatore block out the rest as what he does when he’s forced to stay with the Boss and his children. He doesn’t like putting up with the cries and coos.

 

     (The boy was fed enough to satisfy his hunger. It seems that the children back at the fake orphanage were all underfed, just enough to make them function for a day or so. The jutting bones on Alfred’s chest made the Boss frown and fed the boy some soup. He can’t overwhelm the boy’s shrunken stomach with anything heavier for now.

After that he brings the boy to their large bed, cover him with the thick blankets and rest his head on soft pillows before ordering Sally to accompany him for today.

He’s got shopping to do.)

 

     The Boss has spent days fussing over his new child, buying him clothes to clothe him with and toys to entertain him on days he would be gone as well as snacks like candies and chocolates children like him would definitely salivate over and maybe willingly roll on their backs like obedient puppies and open their legs wide to let the Boss _fuck them already_ \---

But the child didn’t. He wears the clothes because if he didn’t then he would be as bare as a newborn babe and that could’ve been worse if so. _What if he provokes the man and attack him finally? Heeding less to his cries of “no”s and “don’t”s?_

That’s what the look in his eyes said whenever Salvatore spares him a glance over the Boss’ shoulders when he goes down on his knees and talks lowly to the child when he comes over to check only to find the treats he left were where he put them, untouched. Same goes with the toys. As if touching them would mean that the Boss has reasons to touch the child now without the child’s consent when those are merely courting gifts.

Salvatore would rather lie but that’s what they really are.

The Boss was fucked in the head like that, romanticising disgusting things like his sexual and romantic fascination for children. There had been a time when the Boss used to be like any other men who goes for people their age, actually feel sexually attracted to them and fuck them and love them, but that was a long time ago.

Before that Bonnefoy took it all.

So now he prefers the little ones, with their young faces that give the illusion of innocence because everyone knows children are made of pure and innocent things that save people from the darkness.

(But they aren’t as pure anymore after the Boss had his way with them now, was it?)

Salvatore knows that there is no such thing as innocence no matter the age though. He knows this very well, but he doesn’t need to say it aloud and break his Boss’ heart.

(Salvatore had been a child once, and the thoughts that ran in his head were the images of his aggressors dead. Bodies torn and mangled by his little hands, their eyes poked out of their sockets and their guts on his hands---)

No matter the circumstances may be, Salvatore stands by his account that the Boss’ love for these little ones are true, fucked up they may be.

He truly, really, loved them.

 

     The boy---Alfred, has the strange fixation to run and reach out for Salvatore whenever he’s in the room with the Boss.

Much to the Boss’ dismay.

“How did you make him like you?” He asked one time, as he watched the boy’s terrified cries shudder to a slowing halt as Salvatore gently bounces him on his arms, a hand slowly stroking his shaking back. Poor child scared himself over nothing.

“It’s because I’m not a pedophile,” Salvatore tells him evenly and the Boss’ nose scrunches rather endearingly at that.

“Oy, I’m your superior.” Says he but there is no hostility in his voice.

“Apologies. Boss, will you please turn off the television.” Salvatore says in mock respect, but means the request. He can feel the boy slacking in his hold, his breathing evening. He must’ve started falling asleep. He glances at a clock mounted on a wall by the television, where the screaming and screeching noises come from. It’s too loud that he feared the noises would rouse the child from his rest.

The smile plastered on the Boss’ face appeared faker than usual as he bows mockingly in return, “Of course, anything for my lovely _subordinate_ ,” and approaches the television.

His brows furrow and his mouth quirks strangely when spares the screen a glance then his hand moves towards the volume control instead of the power button. He cranks the volume lower instead of shutting it down.

“I don’t see the charm of these…monster films,” He remarks after a few moments of frowning and watching at it with strange fascination, though he appeared more confused than amused. His eyes are squinting at the screen as he watches a fanged man inflict gashes on a priest, blood squirting exaggeratedly from the wound on his neck unto a screeching maiden.

“It must be the age,” To be honest, Salvatore doesn’t get it himself. They’re ridiculous. Then again, turning to look at the sleeping child, his head tucked on Salvatore’s neck, children like Alfred doesn’t know any better.

He turns his head back to the Boss and sees the television flicker off in time. The Boss was shaking his head, chuckling to himself. He seemed amused when he remarks with a, “Maybe.”

The Boss’ eyes go to the clock mounted on the wall, his head turning left and right again at the time. “It’s late,” He tells Salvatore, a hand gesturing towards the boy’s bedroom.

Salvatore was about to hand the boy over, but was surprised when the Boss shakes his head and motions again towards the bedroom. Shrugging, he follows. The Boss’ orders were absolute, after all.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this is supposed to be like, only about 800 words long but I…got carried away lol.  
> Salvatore and Arthur have a very platonic (and kind of fucked up, in an outsider's POV) relationship, tho I can’t really call it “like brothers” because they aren’t like that. Idk. They wrote themselves :/

            It took about a month before the Boss stopped giving his new child too much attention. Salvatore thinks it was because of sex, really.

He brings a little girl in one of his private penthouses and Salvatore had about two hours of quiet time, watching the Boss play games with her, cuddle on the bed and watch cartoons. At one point, they fed each other dinner and the sappy look of pure adoration on the Boss’ face was tempting enough for him to leave the room.

But he didn’t.

It is his duty to protect and oversee the Boss, whenever and wherever. He’ll be no good if he failed something as simple as this.

And anyway, at least this is the most they were doing. If it were anything else, then yes, he would leave. Not just because he wanted to but because the Boss will tell him to.

He doesn’t really like it when people watch.

Watch him fuck his children, that is.

When Salvatore notices that the girl is no longer giggling, her little hands pushing at the Boss’ head as he mouths at her clothed skin, Salvatore makes a pointed noise. The look on the Boss’ face directed at him at that moment as he has his face buried in her stomach was enough for Salvatore to discreetly remove himself from the room. Gladly.

Instead he stands guard at the door, head leaning against it, trying to listen for any suspicious sounds that may not come from pleasure or anything else that the Boss approves of.

Watching or not, Salvatore cannot forget his duty.

* * *

 

            Salvatore finds himself running up, up and up the stairways, almost out of breath when he reaches the top floor, feeling his sweat dripping down from his chin to his damp suit, wet and hot from all the running he had been doing for the past hour or so.

This is the last place he knows the Boss would go, if things were really as bad as he had thought it was.

Today was supposed to be his day off too, happily spending the rest of the night sleeping on his cold bed when he was suddenly awakened by a distressed call from one of the Boss’ guards, saying how the man has suddenly vanished without a trace just before he was escorted into a business meeting. Everyone were in a state of panic, worried for their Boss’ safety, silently wondering if the man’s deeds has finally piled up to a height that even God himself had to do something to get back at him for it.

The floor was dark and the heating was off, cooling Salvatore’s heated skin and he stops momentarily to catch his breath, all the while looking around to see if he was finally wrong.

A clink of a glass from the corner of the room where the bar is located says that he’s right, after all.

The Boss did run away again.

He hears himself exhale a soundless sigh, mouth wide open, still trying to catch his breath. Who wouldn’t if you ran around the city, looking at every building your superior uses as his living space with worry pressing into your head, clouding your vision and ability to properly comprehend logic.

When he supposes he could breathe well again, he walks towards the light switch, about to turn the lights on and ask the Boss to please at least call and calm his men when the Boss suddenly speaks up in the dark, choking out.

“Stop!” Salvatore’s fingers pause, the tips grazing at the switch. A little bit more pressure and the entire room will be illuminated.

“You know how much my eyes had always hated light,” The Boss adds with a groan, and Salvatore can hear him grasping his head as he shakes it, a glass of whiskey on his other hand, idly swirled as he does so.

The Boss doesn’t drink anything other than whisky when he gets in one of his moods.

Defeated, he joins him in the bar, sits beside him and readily accepts a glass that was poured for him. He prepares himself, inhaling and holding his breath as he takes a quick sip. He always hated how alcohol tastes like, burns your throat and makes your head feel funny. He could never understand the novelty in drinking liquor, no matter how many times he had to accompany the Boss for drinks and such.

They spend a few more hours like that, sitting quietly as they sip their warm drinks in the cold, the Boss’ features slightly visible from the moonlight slipping through the glass walls of the building that overlooks the city below. He seemed content to take his time, taking small sips to savour the flavour, the familiar faraway look on his face as he stares at the view below him but at the same time not truly seeing them.

At some point, the Boss managed to drag him to his bed along with the bottle of the whisky he’s been drinking for hours. From the looks of it, he’ll need tons of water and rest come morning if he’s insistent on finishing the whole thing. Salvatore supposes he should be stealing the bottle from the Boss’ hand at this point, knowing how bad alcohol does to him when he had too much of them but he thinks again and drops the thought.

The Boss seemed like he _really_ needed it.

A few more hours and they’ve moved from the bar to the Boss’ bed, listening to the Boss talk about everything and nothing with a silly smile on his face, nostalgic about their childhood and the bottle empty and shattered on the floor, the Boss suddenly finds himself squinting, wincing as he covers his eyes. Complains about how they hurt when they open and how tears won’t stop flowing out.

Salvatore peers at the window and sees that it was probably the sun that was making the Boss’ eyes hurt so. Dawn’s approaching.

“Already?” The Boss whimpers, face hidden by his hands, desperately covering his sensitive eyes.

“Pull down my curtains, will you?” He orders, curling down on the bed facedown, pulling at the blankets and pillows to cover his head and his body. Suddenly, the room had gotten cold and he’s shivering badly.

“You should go to sleep now,” Salvatore says by the windows, dutifully covering them with heavy curtains to block the light completely. The Boss merely groans at his suggestion irritably. It wasn’t Salvatore who suggested to drink all night now, did he? So he had no place to complain at the moment.

“Just, just get here already!”

Salvatore gets kicked when he attempts to pull at the Boss’ feet, trying to pull his socks off.

“I said get _here_ , not _there_! I’m cold!”

“I know, I know, you’ll thank me later.” Salvatore mutters, fighting down the want to hit the defiant limb.

“Ow!”

“Stop being difficult and take off your jacket.”

He received another unwilling groan, unfortunately. The Boss pulls his feet off from Salvatore’s hold to be curled and hidden from sight and Salvatore thinks he should probably not bother pulling those out again lest the Boss finds his hands on the hand gun he hides under his pillow and actually shoot him.

He’s quite lethal when sleepy.

Salvatore’s lucky that he got the socks off, then.

He moves up to where the Boss’ head was, grabbing his hand to take his jacket off, knowing how the Boss will have a hard time sleeping later when he’s damp with sweat with all the layers he had been wearing when the limp hand suddenly wasn’t so limp anymore and pulls him down, the Boss’ face buried to his chest.

“We need to take off your jacket first, Boss.”

“Hm,” He groaned in an affirmative, nodding his head once but does nothing about it. Salvatore sighs.

He rests his head on the pillow, facing the ceiling. Slightly wondering how his supposed time to himself became all about the Boss. Again.

When the silence was occasionally disturbed by the ticking of the clocks and the Boss’ breathing on his chest, he shifts to move the possessive hand around him, planning to clean the mess on the floor, then on the bar and prepare the Boss something to eat and to drink later once he feels well enough to get up and probably contact the guys while he’s on it and ease the panic.

He thought was quite successful at the attempt until, that is, he feels the Boss’ arm shoot out to grab at his sleeve, swollen-red eyes peering at him from the pillows, begging him not to leave in that weak raspy voice.

Powerless against the man, he obliges. He settles back to where he was before and this time, puts an arm around the Boss’ back to pull him closer towards his side, Salvatore’s head resting atop his from where it was back to rest on his chest.

Not much later after they had properly settled down, hears an inhale, breath shuddering and wet, and the next thing he knows, the Boss is crying. His tears making his shirt damp.

“I’m so lonely, Sally.”

He couldn’t find the words to say anything, knowing whatever he may say wouldn’t change how things had turned out.

So he lifts his hand to gently rub the Boss’ back, up to his shivering shoulders, no longer cold but shivering nonetheless.

“I miss them so much.”

* * *

 

            Anxiety.

It was coming from the bottom of his guts, brewing and making him want to throw up.

It has been a month, hasn’t it?

That man has yet to return once again.

Alfred remembers how he had been so…persistent. Not in an aggressive way Alfred would usually see in his mother’s past lovers, who would later go back into the habit of spending her money and beat them both and rape her.

That man, though, Alfred doesn’t understand.

He placed him in a big space, with a bed and a couple of rooms filled with things to keep him occupied because he said he’s a very busy man and cannot see him for more than a few hours before he had to leave to take care of business again. Then he smiles apologetically, as if Alfred actually has the right to get mad.

He was kind. Awfully so to the point that Alfred started to doubt if this man is really who they say he was.

Kirkland.

The maniac, they call him. His previous owner, one of the Bonnefoy’s big men used to spit his name like some kind of poison. They like to call him a bastard in hushed whispers over cheap drinks with their women---or sometimes his fellow kids---on their laps, almost naked and being groped before falling into a fit of laughther.

It was like they were talking about a punch line of a joke only they know.

His thoughts were cut to a halt when he hears the main door open, and then hear it slam close again. They weren’t gentle in doing it, where you can only hear the lock clicking. This one was slammed close harshly that it made Alfred wince; the walls probably shuddered at the force.

Now, he’s terrified. Wondering if the building had been invaded by a rival gang and its people probably killed. What if it sees him and shoots him on site? He’s not stupid to hope that he will be spared, knowing what he had seen when Kirkland’s men took over their building in a matter of minutes. Guts and fluids splattering the walls and the floor, he and the rest of the kids huddled in a corner, eyes closed shut and hands covering their ears. Everything was so loud they could barely hear their own voices as they cried and whimpered and prayed.

Is it really a blessing that the leader of the operations had seen it fit to present them to Kirkland as a prize?

He had overheard from the conversations amongst the men that their Boss is overly fond of children. How he might be interested to take one of them home to play with so they shouldn’t touch the kids yet until they get the approval. From Salvatore, at the very least.

He would soon realise that Salvatore was his supposed saviour, Kirkland laughing about it at his face as he tries to calm Alfred down when he cries too much, just so, _so_ afraid of Kirkland when he gets too close, knowing what lies beneath that warm smile and warm food and warm bed.

_Salvatore_. It means _saviour_ , Kirkland barely manages to say in-between his laughs.

_It was so ironic it hurts._

* * *

 

          “You must be Arthur’s new kid, huh?”

“Huh?” Alfred looks up from where he sat, cramped in a small space between the corner of the wall and his bed.

It was a boy, peering down at him with large brown eyes. He seemed foreign but speaks English just fine. Too fine.

The boy gives him an unimpressed look, his hand coming up to cup his face as he continues to stare Alfred down.

“I’m Hong, by the way. You’re Arthur’s new thing, right?”

“…thing?” Alfred asks, confused as how things went from a simple assumption of an invasion into nothing but another child being sent in to his cage (this is what this whole thing is, isn’t it?).

Alfred thought that this place was only for him, for Kirkland to keep him isolated and all to himself. Since the day he was brought here, the only constant faces he sees were Kirkland and his ever-loyal shadow aside from maids who come in at least thrice a day to bring him meals and bathe him and take care of the place.

He was well-cared for.

The fact that lately, Kirkland had been coming up to visit less and less became the reason of his unease, though. Spending days in solitude, the maids sent to his cage barely saying a word to him other than “what do you want to eat today?” or “Time for your bath”.

It gets lonely up here, alone with nothing but your own thoughts to brew.

With this boy appearing all of a sudden, introducing himself as Hong and calling Kirkland by his first name so casually and shamelessly calls him Kirkland’s… _thing_ , it brings the anxiety he had been trying to oppress back.

Is he getting replaced?

If so, where would he go now? Back to where he was before?

Or somewhere worse?

“So, wanna tell me your name? I don’t bite or anything.” Hong asks, impatient.

Before Alfred managed to open his mouth after moments of contemplating, Hong makes another impatient noise, shuffling out of Alfred’s sight.

“Come on, let’s go check your fridge for something to eat, I’m hungry.”

_“_ You’re too damn quiet, it pisses me off,” Alfred heard him mutter under his breath as he stands up to follow, blood pumping loudly in his head.

_Is he my replacement?_

* * *

            Alfred looks at the bowl of cereal laid down on the table in front of him, and then winces when a tall glass of milk was slammed right next to it, Hong pulling a seat right next to Alfred, his own bowl of cereal on his hands, a smaller portion. He silently munches on them, mouth open as his eyes remain fixated at Alfred’s.

Alfred finds it strangely uncomfortable in the least, to be stared at with such intensity yet at the same time remaining disinterested. He doesn’t know what Hong wants from him, what he wants to see in Alfred. Does he see competition in him?

But if he does, he wouldn’t be bothering to feed him, right?

And it was a big serving, compared to what Hong is eating right now…

“So, wanna tell me who you are now?” Hong says in-between his bites, then his eyebrows raise, “Or you didn’t have any…?”

He sets his bowl of unfinished cereal on the table with a gentle clack, the gentlest thing he had done so far in Alfred’s cage, and leans forward, his face closer to Alfred’s, eyes wider and lit with curiosity. Then one of his eyebrows quirks up in inquiry, almost interrogatory as he asks another question, “Arthur didn’t even name you, at least?”

Hong seemed to see something in Alfred’s expression---confused, surprised, _overwhelmed_ \---because he backs away, a hint of a smile on his face now as he looks at Alfred up and down and up again back to his face.

“You’re not mute, are you?” He says, in the brink of laughing. Why he thinks being disabled is funny, Alfred will never know.

Doesn’t want to know.

He wants to speak, was intending to, but finds that he’s unable to summon his voice and so settles with shaking his head. He’s not mute.

Hong snorts, “Pfft, yeah, that’s what mutes would _say_ when asked.”

“I’ll call you Alfred then.” Hong adds.

When Hong hears his gasp, the other boy smiles wider at him, legs partially raised on his seat in a way that he’s about to curl into himself. Like he’s trying to conceal the excitement in his body language but fails miserably with how his face shows every little detail about it.

“You were teasing me.” Alfred manages to say, accusing. He doesn’t feel as anxious anymore, finding Hong’s presence welcome rather than threatening. His displeased frown at Hong’s antic, however, doesn’t seem to unnerve the other boy in the very least. Instead he got a giggle and an excited nod.

“Salvatore wouldn’t bring me over here without briefing me, you know.”

At the mention of Salvatore, Alfred’s mind drifts back to Kirkland, his lack of presence in Alfred’s confinement lately and back to his anxiety.

Oh, how short moments of relief can easily be overpowered by reality.

“Salvatore did?” Alfred asks, brows furrowed. Did Kirkland make him do it?

“Oh, hm,” Hong nods eagerly. “He did.”

“Arthur doesn’t know,” He adds with a wink, said in a hushed whisper and a finger to his lips.

“Salvatore wanted me to teach you stuff.”

“Stuff?” Alfred can’t help but repeat, confused. First was _thing_ and now its _stuff_. He doesn’t think he would be able to understand Hong much if he keeps being uncomfortably vague.

Hong doesn’t seem to notice Alfred’s problem with his vocabulary, giving Alfred’s inquiry an off-handed shrug, settling back down on his seat and rests his cheek on the cool table, peering up at Alfred.

“Yanno,” He says with a wave of his hand, “ _Stuff_. Things Arthur likes. Salvatore thinks,” Hong makes a horrible impression of Salvatore’s heavy scowl, not as awkward and disturbing on the real thing’s face—like he’s actually having problems making human expressions---and makes his voice a hundred times deeper than a child’s usual high pitch, “ _the Boss isn’t happy.”_

Alfred couldn’t help but let out a snort at that one, too funny to imagine the expression on Hong’s face to be on Salvatore’s. Hong starts laughing at it too, and then he sighs, laughing lowly to himself. “He’s over-reacting, I think. I mean, Arthur’s always stressed or something about a coupl’a things. He just smiles a lot because he thinks he looks hot like that,” He looks at Alfred with a big grin on his face, voice low, he says, like it was some kind of secret, ”He actually told me that yanno, while sucking me off once. He’s the only guy I’ve seen smile and laugh that much with a dick in his mouth, I’m telling ya.”

Hong was laughing as he recollects, like it was some funny tale kids Alfred’s age would normally talk about with fellow children and seeing Hong act so casual and shrug something like that off brought chills down Alfred’s spine. Dread settling down his gut, heavier than the anxiety that once occupied it.

So he wasn’t being replaced. He’s being _trained_. Because Salvatore thinks he’s not bringing his precious boss satisfaction. Was that why Kirkland barely comes in here anymore?

Wouldn’t it be more ideal to just get rid of him, then?

“Hey,” Alfred jumps when something cold was pressed to his cheek. He didn’t realise he had been looking down at his feet until he had to look up once again to meet Hong’s eyes, his hand on Alfred’s glass of milk, still cold from its recent storage in the refrigerator. Hong looks at him with worry as he settles the glass of milk back to the table.

“You feeling alright? You’re kind of pale. Here, eat something, for fuck’s sake.” He pushes the bowl of cereal towards Alfred, its contents starting to unfortunately become soggy, but still edible.

Shakily, Alfred nods, choosing to remain quiet and eats the food Hong prepared for him silently.

“He likes it when you call him Arthur.” Hong suddenly blurts out in the silence, making Alfred twist his spoon too hard, spilling cereal and milk on the table. Hong barely spares the mess a glance, raising a brow at him as Alfred tried to ignore it, intent on focusing on eating his serving, pretending he hasn’t heard Hong say anything, at which Hong immediately catches on.

“You _do_ call him _Arthur_ , right?”

When Hong was met with silence, Alfred insisting on eating through the awkward atmosphere he had built up himself and fails, Hong’s smile falters, sagging on the table, stunned. “You haven’t…”

_Had sex with him yet?_ Was the question that seemed to linger on Hong’s tongue.

“Oh my God,” Hong madly whispers, face paling.

“That’s crazy.” Hong adds, sounding quite impressed as looks at Alfred wide-eyed in a way that it seemed that he is seeing Alfred in a different light.

Alfred scowls at him, spoon half-way into his mouth. “No.”

“No? Are you serious? That’s---“

“No, I mean I don’t want to know. The _stuff_ you came here to teach me. I’m not planning to stay here for much longer.” He cuts Hong off, displeased at the scandalised look on Hong’s face. He can’t really expect him to just _accept_ how things are, doesn’t he?

Alfred thinks he doesn’t like Hong anymore, if he keeps talking like that.

Hong flashes him a wry smile. “Arthur picked you, and that means he would _want_ to have at least a taste. Then _after_ that, you can worry about what’ll become of you, given that he thinks you’re boring enough or too old,” At which Hong makes a pointed look at Alfred’s body. _Young enough for Arthur_.

“Piss him off and he won’t think twice to throw you at anyone who’ll take you. Saw him did it once. Bought two little girls that he heard made friends with Salvatore. Long story but basically, he didn’t like anyone stealing his playmate away, so he bought those girls from whichever gang owned them just to have them raped and fucked with scary as heck things until they died, making sure Salvatore saw everything.” Hong was shaking his head, giving Alfred a sympathetic look, actually worried for his well-being.

“You don’t want him angry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Try counting how many times I had to retype salvatore’s name bc I kept on typing Sally. LOL. He doesn’t like people calling him Sally, unless you’re Arthur. Also Hong is aph hong kong. He’s around Alfred’s age in this au too. As you can see, he’s been involved in this gang thing longer than Alfred was, so stuff like child prostitution and such doesn’t faze him anymore. You really actually get used to them if you see them everyday or if you’re raised in that environment (see: Arthur and most especially Salvatore who was already in too deep before he got introduced to Arthur when they were kiddos) that stuff will be your typical day. I’m not gonna say anymore but yea.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My storage on dropbox where I back all my fics is getting full. I guess I’ll have to delete everything and stop writing forever.

      It didn’t take long for Alfred to get used to a new routine not a week later since Hong arrived. The other had made it clear in the beginning that Salvatore is only borrowing him for a certain time of the day so he wasn’t expected to stay any longer than five hours at most by Alfred’s side. Nonetheless, he made himself a good company that Alfred enjoyed despite the looming dread of what may follow some time soon.

So far, since that time he told Hong that he isn’t interested in things he had to offer, the other boy never bothered to mention it ever again and he was wholly thankful for it.

“I tell Salvatore you’re getting embarrassed when I bring them out so it’s why it’s taking you so long to learn.” He told him one time when Alfred worriedly asked, knowing the reason why Hong was brought here in the first place. He may be unwilling but he doesn’t want the other boy to get punished for not being able to do what he had been told. Most especially since it seems that Salvatore wouldn’t be planning to let Kirkland know of his little project anytime soon, Hong speculated.

“He’s too dedicated to the guy to ever do that. Like a nanny or something. I dunno. Salvatore’s kind of weird, never really understood what’s going on in his head most of the time. Never questioned Arthur’s stuff and quietly did as asked.” Then Hong gives him a cheeky smile, “Unless he knows Arthur’s up to something naughty that he doesn’t approve of.”

At Alfred’s confused look, he elaborates, nibbling on his cookies as he does so. “Like that one time he ditched him in the middle of a meeting or something with this Russian guy. He got too bored and Russian guy creeped him out so he called for a break and never came back.” Hong was snickering by the time he ended his story, licking what remained of the cookie on his fingers.

“How did you know that?” Alfred found himself asking, watching Hong in strange fascination as the other boy tears a new bag of cookies open with his teeth to refill their plate. The movie playing on the screen was left forgotten but the background noise was welcomed.

Hong shrugs as he slumps back on his seat, legs crossed as he grabs for more to eat. “He spent time he’s supposed to be there making legit deals to fuck me.”

Hong failed to catch himself last minute and based on the tense silence that followed afterwards, he knows that he had said the wrong thing. So he pauses and looks at Alfred in the eyes, giving the other boy a smile that he hopes appeared as comforting as his words, “Arthur’s actually nice if you get to know him.”

Alfred frowns, hands balling into tight fists that ended up crushing the uneaten cookie in his hands. Looking down at the mess he made on his lap, he mutters in distaste, “That’s what they all say.”

Hong frowns in turn, turning his back on Alfred and curls up into himself, biting his cookie with the intent to kill, his teeth clanking harshly together with every chew.

“I’m alive right now, aren’t I? That has to mean something.”

* * *

            It was one of those regular days where Salvatore would drop Hong early in the morning and Alfred wakes up to Hong bouncing on his bed, the curtains on the windows drawn to show him that the dark sky that overlooks the city---as awake and lively as Hong is, bouncing on his bed and asking for something to eat. Alfred had always wondered if the other boy wasn’t feeding right.

That was always the case, wasn’t it though? Children like Alfred and Hong were exploited to do labour and are expected to accept less and be grateful for it. If Alfred wasn’t the Boss’ little pet he knows he would be working as hard as Hong is right now.

So with no other choice, as usual, he gets up groggily from bed and leads the boy by the hand towards the kitchen, despite knowing that the other had already known where it is.

On why Hong had always insisted Alfred eat whenever he does too, Alfred doesn’t want to think much about it.

They hang out, like the usual.

Alfred opens a bunch of sweets and other things he hadn’t imagined he can have---like chips and bread and soda---and sets them all on the table and plugs the television on. They would eat and watch cartoons and other interesting things on the hundreds of channels the television has to offer, and sometimes Hong makes commentaries and laugh at Alfred’s face for not understanding his references. It wasn’t Alfred’s fault he had never came as close to a television since he was no older than five. His mother had to sell a bunch of their things to keep their essentials. Like food, housing, and her boyfriends.

Those were all in the past now, Alfred supposes. No use thinking about them when you were so busy thinking about other things. Like how will he go on after Kirkland’s done with him.

It wasn’t like his situation is forever, he knows. Maybe he’s one of those early bloomers, who’ll start developing a deep voice as early as twelve and what not.

Kirkland doesn’t like teenagers.

He and Hong were starting on a little debate regarding vampires, a vampire hunter running in the television screen in front of them to fuel their conversation when suddenly both boys jump on the couch, the bag of chips on their laps almost spilling on the couch’s surface and the floor.

“What is going on here?”

A voice says over their heads. It wasn’t angry or shouting but instead quiet and curious.

They both look up at the same time to see the man himself---Kirkland, hovering above them, eyebrows raised so far up his hairline you can’t actually make them out from his thick, messy hair.

His large eyes turn to Hong in inquiry, mouth opening as he tries to recall the other boy’s name.

“Hong,” He says. At the slight tip of Hong’s head, he presumes he was correct so carries on. “What are you doing in Alfred’s penthouse?” He asks the boy slowly.

Hong’s expression twists into uncertainty, his brows furrowing and his fists tightening their hold on his bag of chips, making the bag create a noise as the plastic gets deformed and its contents crushed. He doesn't seem so comfortable underneath the man’s gaze, contrary to what he used to tell Alfred.

He seemed afraid.

Kirkland appeared to have noticed as well. “Come now, you can tell me everything,” his eyes seemed to glow underneath his dark lashes. “You know that.” _I won’t hurt you_.

Hong shakily nods at that, sweat beading on his forehead. He makes a quick glance behind Kirkland, looking for his shadow that Kirkland was quick to notice. A rumble makes it way down Kirkland’s throat as he makes a contemplative sound, a hand coming up to cup his chin in thought and another to rest on the couch near the boys’ heads. It makes a squeaking noise as he grips the furniture, the fabric twisting beneath these hands.

“Sally,” he calls out, eyes focused on Hong intently. His eyes don’t quite reach his smile, glowing bright and hot. “Mind calling someone to send Hong back to his work?”

Behind Kirkland, Alfred doesn’t know what to make out of Salvatore’s expression. Too afraid to move from his place, the noises coming from the television, loud and lively, don’t make a good background noise in this atmosphere.

He doesn’t know if either Hong or Salvatore would get punished.

He doesn’t know Kirkland too well.

That hand gripping the couch moves towards Hong in an offering, palm up and vulnerable. Hong looks up from where he sat, towards the hand and up to its owner whose eyes doesn’t look as menacing as he did a few moments ago. They were warm and inviting, like he had always remembered and he feels his face involuntarily heat up. Alfred sees all of this on his front row seat, bitterly impressed how Kirkland can charm _children_ like that so well, just like from Alfred’s old work. The girls flocked to him like moths to a flame, couldn’t help themselves to be drawn to something so warm and beautiful despite knowing how flying too close would burn them alive.

“Come now, time to go back to work.” Kirkland says at which Hong nods at, his small hands grabbing Kirkland’s outstretched one to help the boy up and be led to Salvatore. Alfred can see how Hong’s hands were so small, compared to Kirkland’s big ones that wraps around Hong’s completely, covering it entirely with his own.

Hong makes a small glance towards Alfred, free hand raised as he says as Kirkland guides him towards Salvatore, “Bye, Alfred.”

Not a “Later, Alfred” like the usual one that Hong says before Salvatore comes to take him away and back to work.

This was a farewell.

When Hong was out of Alfred’s sight, Kirkland turns towards him, finally giving him the attention he had failed to provide for so long. His lips quirk up into a bigger smile, teeth almost showing from a grin he’s trying not to make then his eyes crinkle and his brows furrow strangely---in apology, it seems---and tells him, “I’ll be right back.” As if he’s expecting Alfred to chase after him if he leaves.

Then he finally stands up, brushing down his clothes for any crinkles and dust and calls out, “Sally, we need to talk.”

Then the door to the exit slams closed. Angry muffled noises followed.

* * *

            Sally’s head turns to the side when his cheek was met with a firm hand, slapping him across the face.

It make’s Arthur blood boil all the more at the fact that the other man barely flinched at the contact, eyes remaining impassive as they slowly blink open and head turn back slowly towards him in attention.

“What was that?” He hisses into Sally’s face. The last few weeks had been so tiring, so much work to do and people to talk to. Businesses to take care of, both legal and illegal. At least the illegal side hasn’t been acting up too much unlike the legal ones, but lately those two had been grating on his nerves equally. This world had too many stupid people…

Speaking of stupid people…

He throws his hand again to give Sally another firm slap. _Slap_ , and his head was turning sideways again. Asshole barely flinched but he knows it hurt enough because his palm is stinging nicely and a bloody red mark is starting to show on the side of Sally’s face.

_God_ , he’s so angry right now.

He slaps Sally again; on the same side, his palm now left numb but _God_ doesn’t he want to fucking break Sally’s face right now. Beat him bloody until he’s on the ground and step on his face hard enough that that fucking porcelain eyeball will crack inside his socket. Then they’ll see if he could pull one of these shits again.

“What was that?” He repeats, screaming this time like bloody murder.

“To keep you entertained.” Was the reply, voice as passive as ever. Arthur’s threats of corporal punishment never worked on Sally, after all.

Even if he was serious half the time. That stitch on his leg was proof enough.

“What?” Arthur asks in confusion, screeching.

“I figured Hong can teach him some things.” Sally elaborated, eyes focused on Arthur’s the entire time, his features remained cool despite the growing welt on his cheek. The corner of his lip was red with blood where he accidentally bit on it when he was slapped for the first time, taking him off guard. He didn’t bother to give it much concern at the moment, when Arthur’s fury is palpable.

At his answer, however, Arthur seemed to falter. His anger flying out of his system like a flames splashed with water. He appeared shaken, quite lost. “What?” Was all he could say, no longer screaming at Sally’s face in barely contained fury.

_What for?_ Arthur wanted to ask, but wasn’t quite sure how.

Sally must’ve misunderstood though and explained further, “Teach Alfred some things you’ll like in the bedroom, make your love li—“

“Are you mad?” Arthur suddenly cuts him off, almost hysterical with his face paling and eyes widening as he finds himself rather alarmed at Sally’s choice of words. _Love life_ , he was about to say.

What does that have to do with sex?

Arthur frowns, arms crossed over his chest, having the sudden need to make himself smaller in the other man’s presence. He exhales deep through his nose and along it comes out the sudden burst of hysteric. He feels calmer than before but still just as mad, his eyes turning away angrily from the other. He doesn’t feel like talking to Sally right now.

“Boss?” Sally calls him in inquiry when Arthur started to turn away from him, walking back towards the door to Alfred. When Sally made a move to follow, Arthur stops him by a finger pointed at the other man sharply.

“Don’t.” He tells him in reprimand and slams the door on Sally’s face.

* * *

            Alfred stiffens from his seat when he hears the door slam open and closed again, followed by Kirkland’s voice calling for his name. He refused to answer and kneels up on his seat, turning his body towards the door where Kirkland stood, his shadow nowhere to be seen.

Salvatore’s absence somehow made Alfred all the more afraid for Kirkland to find him.

But this is not that big of a place and Kirkland’s wandering eyes immediately found his and it lights up Kirkland’s face, though his smile appeared more…subdued. Less intense from the usual ones he throws at Alfred.

He looks tired.

He strides towards him to the couch, walking around it this time so that he could sit right next to Alfred but not too close to crowd him. He sat on the far end corner of the couch, leaving a gap the size of an entire seat to separate himself from Alfred.

He gives Alfred a look, eyes never straying from Alfred’s face, studying his expression as he bites his lip, as if trying to formulate words to say.

Then slowly, he opens his mouth, “I want you to be honest with me,” he said, at which Alfred stares at Kirkland silently, making the man’s brows furrow as he rests both of his hands on his lap, his legs crossed.

He looks at Alfred worriedly, “Are you afraid of me?”

It was that question that makes Alfred all the more silent, hesitant whether or not he should answer and would he get a negative response if he said yes? But it was normal, Alfred reasoned to himself. Any child his age would be afraid if they know that every waking moment that you are expected to give a man sexual favours.

Alfred jumps, startled, when suddenly Kirkland stands up from his seat and walks in front of him, kneeling on the floor so that he’s looking up at Alfred’s eyes, he asks, quietly, voice low so as not to startle and it works so well on Alfred’s nerves right now and he was grateful.

“Why are you afraid of me?” He asks softly, then continues, “Come on, speak up. We won’t be able to get through with this if you don’t tell me what’s wrong. I won’t get mad, I promise.”

_I won’t get mad_ , he said. Alfred frowns. They always say that before they hurt you if you said something they want you to say but never actually wanted to hear. It’s a game that adults like to play. Tell kids it’s alright to tell them anything and when you actually said something problematic instead of something silly adults would expect to hear like broken toys and annoying playmates they get angry and you get punished for it.

Alfred had known this game too well to lose now.

Then Kirkland laughs, low in his throat. Shaking his head, he mutters to the side, “’I won’t get mad,’ what a way to make children feel all the more scared to talk.” He said it more to himself, it seems. Turning back towards Alfred, he apologises, “I’m sorry, I know it may sound condescending, but I really do mean it when I said I want you to be honest. Why don’t you give it a try and see if its true? You spat on my face before, didn’t you?” Kirkland’s smile widens in amusement as Alfred feels his face heat up. In his defence, Kirkland deserved it.

So Kirkland may have a point, emphasis on “may”. Alfred sucks in a deep inhale through his nose before blurting out, “You’re a paedophile.” He wasn’t quite sure of what it means, but he heard it a couple of times too many from Salvatore whenever Kirkland asks why Alfred was so fond of the man.

Alfred had assumed that it was something about Kirkland and his preference to children.

When Kirkland says nothing, his demeanour barely moved from the usual composed one, Alfred wasn’t sure of what to make out of what is going on through the man’s head. Then Kirkland’s brows rise up to his hairline, eyes wide as he stares Alfred down with an expression similar to confusion. Amused, but also confused.

He opens his mouth reluctantly, his voice seemingly cracked. “Y-yes, I suppose I am, aren’t I?” He says, coughing into his fisted hand as he turns away from Alfred, eyes bright as they blink repeatedly, staring at nothing in particular. Alfred knows he had heard that word before, had seen Salvatore throw them at him with abandon and Kirkland laughing it off but now, the words sounded like they were a revelation.

Kirkland was silent for a moment and Alfred was the same, merely staring up at the other in curiosity and a little tad of fear, still unsure of how things will turn out in the end.

Kirkland’s fist eventually rests into an open palm where they remained on his mouth; covering them daintily and making him appear delicate and at the same time sophisticated with his other hand resting on his crossed legs. Then his brows furrow in deep thought as he slowly turns his head back towards Alfred, those green eyes staring not at Alfred’s eyes but at his face, tracing every lines and curves.

Not too long, Kirkland smiles over his hand, removes it from his mouth to show those lips curled into a small smile, one side slightly quirked up than the other and he chuckles as he shifts a little closer to Alfred, just enough for his hands to reach him and hold his cheek. His smile breaks into a grin when he moves his hand up to brush Alfred’s hair, fingers picking at stray bangs and putting them in place.

Alfred found the gesture quite soothing, not sure if it was because it felt genuine or that maybe he had been starved for human contact in so long. It wasn’t like he had been getting any before either, but he was starved, nonetheless. He welcomes the touch anyway and absently leans into it, making Kirkland’s smile wider, warmer but it ended too soon for Alfred’s liking as Kirkland pulled away.

He stands up, hands brushing down his dress pants for any dust and wrinkles in the fabric then turning to Alfred, he announces, “What about a change of scenery?”

* * *

When the car stops in front of a tall building, Alfred had initially thought Kirkland was moving him to a different building, a change of scenery, indeed.

As it turns out, when Kirkland said he wanted a change in scenery, he meant that he wanted to---finally---take Alfred out of the penthouse and back into the human civilisation. Kirkland had mentioned in passing that it doesn’t sound healthy for any child to be isolated from human contact for so long, and apologises for being away to be able to take care of things for Alfred. He still doesn’t understand why Kirkland bothers to apologise, it wasn’t like Alfred was in any position to say otherwise.

No one would be able to tell Kirkland off anyway, when he owns the damn place.

Kirkland brought him to a restaurant---Italian, he said---because he knows a bunch of those too well and they cook good food.

Kirkland leads him by the hand this time, Salvatore walking too far behind Kirkland with a worrying busted lip and red cheek. Staring at Kirkland’s large hands wrapped around his, he briefly wonders if such hands could really do something so damaging, wonders how that face would’ve looked as he inflicted those on Salvatore.

Kirkland talks to a man by the entrance, the other flipping through a thick book of records as he does so, then at the mention of Kirkland’s name, the man flips the book closed with a heavy slam, a big smile on his face as he gladly leads them into the establishment.

As they pass through the door, it felt like time has slowed for Alfred.

Everything was sparkling, is all he can describe. The ceilings were so high, decorated with crystals that glints in the light and the floor is made of marble just as sparkly as the ceiling and was so clean that he was sure he can use it as a mirror. The people dining appeared to glimmer as well, with their sparkling jewelleries and silverwares that don’t seem to clink-clank on their plates at all. They were all dressed nicely, if not formally like Kirkland’s and the way they eat with obvious sophistication Alfred has never seen on someone before made him feel smaller and oh-so insignificant.

The smiling man leads them to a large table fit for four at which Kirkland graciously accepts, smiling back as he gives the man a small nod, a cue to leave them alone.

As he sits right next to Kirkland, Alfred takes a small glance at Salvatore who sat across them. No one seemed to give much attention to his current state and he doesn’t seem to care as well of the surroundings, taking his seat quietly and takes one of the cardboards the man from before placed on the table like he belongs here.

Compared to Alfred, who felt like a total alien in such a place, Salvatore does seem more like he belonged here than Alfred ever did. Kirkland and Salvatore both, in fact.

“Do you like cheese?”

Alfred blinks, notices Kirkland’s head turned towards him, the cardboard flipped open towards pictures of spaghettis in different colours. Alfred didn’t know spaghetti can be black.

“Huh?” Is all he manages to say, in the end, too nervous to speak too loudly in a place too quiet, music softly playing in the background. If Alfred looks around hard enough, he’ll notice a band playing in the corner of the restaurant, instruments large and foreign for Alfred to recognise.

Kirkland’s lips quirk at the Alfred’s response, humming low as he brings a hand to grasp his chin in deep thought.

“I was thinking you’ll like _Alfredo_ ,” He says, smiling playfully. Alfred was too clueless to see offense and turns a quick glance across the table to Salvatore when he heard the other snort; eyes remained focused on his own cardboard, barely uttering a word. Kirkland doesn’t seem too offended at the gesture, releasing a huff of small laugh through his nose as he shares eye contact with Alfred who stares back with wide eyes in complete cluelessness.

“No, nevermind.” Kirkland tells him, shaking his head slowly as he does so, eyes returning to his cardboard to read. “I just thought you’d like it because it sounds like your name.”

_Oh_ , he thought, blinking at the word as they flash on his head. He supposes it does sound like his name.

“But I think,” Kirkland says, gathering Alfred’s attention back to him, “Alfredo would be too boring for you.” Kirkland pauses, thinking, and then turns his head back to Alfred in inquiry. “You know what spaghetti is, do you?”

Alfred stares at Kirkland before nodding slowly, unsure of what Kirkland wants from him. Of course he knows what that is, having tasted it before if not a long time ago, back when he still had a mother and they can still afford to eat fun things like ice cream and cake and spaghetti that she was more than happy to cook for him when he asks.

“Hm, that’s good to hear,” Kirkland hums, returning to his cardboard to read. He flips the pages, skips some, like he had read this plenty of times enough to memorise its content until he settles on a page with an image of a white spaghetti.

“What about carbonara then? It’s creamy, with cheese and chicken?” Kirkland asks him, a finger tapping on the picture of what Alfred assumes was the _carbonara_. He stares at the image blankly, wondering if it was something he could eat without being an embarrassment to the establishment, not sure if he’ll actually like the taste when it looks so _different_ and exotic for a child like him.

“It also has eggs. You like eggs, don’t you? I remember stocking your refrigerator with those…” Kirkland adds as an afterthought.

After a few more seconds of pondering, Alfred decides to throw caution to the wind and nods at Kirkland. “Okay,” he adds at which Kirkland nods at, making Alfred sigh in relief. Finally, that was done—

Kirkland flips the pages from the cardboard again, turning to a stop at pictures of sweets and points at them, glancing down at Alfred, and he asks, “So which of these would you want for dessert?”

* * *

 

            Once Kirkland was done reciting every food on the _menu_ , the waiter leaves them a basket of bread.

Alfred silently stares at them, marvelling at their size and his mouth watering involuntarily at the sweet smell emanating from them. Then he watches in fascination how Salvatore and Kirkland casually picked one for themselves, pinching the corner to take a small piece before throwing it to their mouths. He continues to watch for a while, strangely entranced and was urged to pick one for himself when Kirkland notices his staring.

It was warm and big between his small hands and with confidence, he pinches its corner like how he saw from the adults and marvels at how soft it was to easily give into his fingers, puffs of warm air puffing out of the torn bread. He pops it into his mouth and he almost moans at the burst of flavour on his tongue, his face heating up in ecstasy.

“You like it?” Kirkland asks, his own share of bread already half its original size. He grins in satisfaction when Alfred says nothing but nods eagerly, tearing into the bread some more. He laughs lowly, “You can just bite straight into it, you know.”

It made Alfred pause to look at Kirkland, the other nodding towards his piece of bread in permission and Alfred was more than happy to oblige. The bread was of course, too big for Alfred’s small mouth that he had to stretch his mouth wider just to make it fit. When it does, it was worth it. If Kirkland laughed at him at that time, he didn’t care.

He manages to finish his bread and was about to start on his second one when Kirkland suddenly stops him, saying, “If you eat too much, you won’t be able to eat your meal later.”

As if on cue, the waiter returns, pushing a tray filled with warm meal. He neatly settles on the table before them and once he’s gone, Kirkland hands him one of the many utensils settled on the side of his plate. “Eat up,” He smiles, gesturing to the white spaghetti on Alfred’s plate.

Just like how Kirkland had described, it was creamy with cheese, chicken, and egg. It was still slightly steaming, an indication that this was freshly prepared and he subtly takes in its smell and gasping lowly to himself at how heavenly it was. He can feel his mouth water, imagining the white sauce melt into his tongue already just from the smell.

He slowly raises his head, notices how the adults had barely given him a glance and started grabbing for any meal served on the table, taking small amounts of each and placing them on their plates. It seemed like Alfred was the only one who had a meal solely for himself.

Taking it as a cue for himself to start eating, he lifts his fork---too large and heavy for his little hands---and proceeds to eat it like any spaghetti. Kirkland mentioned it _was_ spaghetti, after all. The only difference now was that this one has white sauce instead of red.

So he blends the sauce with the pasta then finally twists his fork in the center. One bite and then two and he’s moaning again, catching the adult’s attention. Salvatore simply rests his cheek on his hand, propped on the table by the elbow and Kirkland puffs out a breath of laughter.

“I told you, you’ll like it.” He said.

He couldn’t help but nod enthusiastically, not caring for any formalities whatsoever, temporarily forgotten.

The warmth and the explosion of flavours on his tongue were just too overwhelming, it makes him crave for more. Then Kirkland places a piece of bread from before on his plate and he looks up, mouth full and still chewing in silent inquiry and he was answered with a smile and “You might like it with bread.”

Kirkland wasn’t wrong.

* * *

 

            It was strange, having fun.

Somehow, the food and the strangely homey atmosphere Kirkland presented him was enough to make him forget of what awaits in the future.

Then as quick as a blink of an eye, it falls apart.

A glass suddenly explodes then Salvatore immediately jumps from his seat, pushing Kirkland and him down to the ground, followed by what sounds like gunshots, people all around them screaming and turning tables and chairs as they scramble for the exit.

Kirkland groans from where they hide and Alfred notices why when he sees Kirkland clutching at his shoulder, spots of red marring his pristine suit. Salvatore was quick to notice and grabs at Kirkland’s obstructive hand to get a proper look, had to rip off his shirt to be able to examine it properly in the end, the bloody suit jacket thrown and forgotten on the ground for Alfred to see.

This was an ambush, Alfred’s mind supplies him. They are getting attacked and Kirkland might just die.

From one owner to another, it seems like the common theme of Alfred’s life right now. He slightly wonders if it was Bonnefoy, trying to be even with Kirkland after what they did to one of his businesses.

He didn’t get to think too much into it when he hears Salvatore click his tongue, face grim as he presses both hands on the sides of Kirkland’s wound, a gaping hole, making Kirkland grunt at every application of pressure, blood dripping from the hole.

“Get Alfred out of here,” Kirkland grunts out, eyes darting towards Alfred. He was in the verge of biting his tongue when Salvatore pressed too hard again. Kirkland swats at the other’s shoulder with his good hand for his troubles, staining Salvatore’s cream-colored shirt with blood, obviously not appreciative of Salvatore’s deed.

“It was probably stuck on the bone; you won’t be able to do anything about it until later!” He hisses out, good hand darting back up to cover his injury. He turns his head towards Alfred’s direction.

“I said get Alfred out of here! I’ll take care of the rest.”

Salvatore was about to deny that order, face contorted into an ugly scowl and mouth about to open but Kirkland pushes at him again, then kick him hard to make a point. “Alfred. Now.”

Salvatore, who had fallen on his arse at the unexpected kick, it seems, can only do nothing but stare at Kirkland impassively, his breathing loud and audible, sounded almost like a growling animal that was cornered.

He gives Alfred a glance and it makes him flinch, at how much hatred those eyes flashed at him in that short moment before he turns his head towards Kirkland again, arm reaching for his leg, raising the pants to show a small knife attached to his leg and dumps on Kirkland’s side, then he reaches for his back and reveals a gun. He clicks it open, revealing it to be filled with bullets and hands that to Kirkland as well, the handle facing Kirkland who takes it silently, nodding.

“Alfred,” he reminds Salvatore at which he nods at.

He approaches Alfred, shaking and unable to move from his spot. Salvatore doesn’t see any problem with him as he was easily carried, thrown into his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. Salvatore takes a small glance at Kirkland one last time, Kirkland nodding once again and smiling at Alfred. He doesn’t look so good and regal right now, his torn clothes and blood and the way he clutches at his injury makes him look like a bird who had crashed and fallen into the ground, ugly and dead.

“I’ll be back to the penthouse as soon as I can.”

Those could be Kirkland’s last words as Salvatore makes a mad dash for the kitchens, Alfred crying out in fear every time he hears gun shots. One almost got them when Salvatore gets in the Kitchen but manages to dodge by the tips of their hairs. The rest were a blur, when all Alfred could really see was the ground, helpless and a dead weight.

Then he screams when he got thrown into something soft and firm and he realises it was the back of a car, its interior different from the one they rode on when they got to the restaurant a few hours prior. Salvatore was quick to shove him aside, doesn’t seem to care if Alfred squeaked in pain or surprise and sits right next to him, slamming the door closed. He was immediately handed a gun, bigger than what he had given Kirkland back at the restaurant and the first thing he says was, “How’s Rick?”

“Dead.” Someone in front says. Everything sounded so casual, Alfred perceives. Even the way Salvatore did not give a proper response to a dead comrade was disturbing as well as how the others had so easily dropped the news.

Will he act the same way if the same thing happens to Kirkland?

Time can only tell, really.

“We got the rest of the boys in the area for clean-up,” guy at the front seat says, after a little while when the vehicle started to move. Then guy at the front seat twist his body to get a proper look at them at the back seat, brows raised. His voice seemed to tremble when he asks, “Where’s the Boss?”

Salvatore’s movement stops, hands at the verge of closing the casing where he put the gun away. He glares at the box as he says, “The Boss chose to stay, distract them. He’s shot, might need a doctor. He thinks the bullet got stuck on a bone.”

Guy at the front seemed to be shocked, eyes and mouth wide, speechless. Then he quickly turns away to sit properly. “Well, shit. _Fuck_.” He says.

The he glances back at them, eyes angry and wide as they focus on Salvatore. “Then why the fuck are you _here_?” He screams, angrily.

Salvatore can only turn his glare up towards guy at the front, head slightly turning to point them at Alfred who squirms in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable, feeling like he’s unwanted. Guy at front barely gives him his time as he turns back on his seat, muttering loudly, spitting the words, “Of- _fucking_ -course.”

Somehow, he forgot that he’s with a bunch of mobsters and Alfred slightly berated himself internally for not expecting a shoot-out.

It was probably the change of scenery, as how Kirkland worded it before.

* * *

 

             At least Salvatore was smart enough to change his shirt. The blood would scare the employees below the penthouse.

They immediately head for the topfloor once they got on the elevator. Alfred was still too shaken from the shooting and blood he had seen a few minutes ago that he doesn’t like the employees to stop and talk to him right now so he grabs for Salvatore’s shirt again, trying to hide behind his large form.

It seemed to work, at least. Salvatore is a terrifying man on a normal day when Kirkland wasn’t there for him to tail like a shadow or a lost puppy.

The way to the penthouse was quiet, too quiet and awkward. It was even more painful when they finally got inside, Alfred remaining still as he stands on the living room, afraid to do anything that will provoke Salvatore into acting out his obvious displeasure in getting dismissed.

Kirkland could really die out there and it will be on Alfred’s hands if he did.

“Go lie down, Alfred.” Alfred jumps at the sudden voice, Salvatore standing before him, the case where he had the gun hidden still in hand and a glass of water on the other. He raises an eyebrow at Alfred, tilts his head to the side and hands him the glass.

“Drink. Then lie down. Sleep.”

Alfred blinks. It doesn’t seem to add up.

Wasn’t Salvatore supposed to be mad at him right now?

When it takes Alfred too long to respond, Salvatore pushes the cool glass on his cheek and he flinches from the cold, a strong contrast to the heat his skin was emitting from the adrenaline. He absently thinks if Hong got the habit of pressing cold things on people’s skin from the Salvatore.

He gingerly accepts the glass and was surprised at himself when he empties the whole thing in what felt like a single gulp.

“Want some more?”

“N, no, thank you.” He manages to blurt out, handing the glass back to the man shyly as the other settles his case down the ground to kneel before him, eyes finally to Alfred’s level.

“You’re alright, then?” Salvatore asks, a hand moving to rest on his shoulder and Alfred nods in affirmative.

“Don’t worry, the Boss won’t be going to hell yet.”

Alfred’s shoulders shook and then the unshed tears started to fall from his eyes like an over-filled dam; for some reason, those words, spoken monotonously by those dead eyes as they stare into him directly washed Alfred with relief.

Salvatore barely reacts to his tears, as if expecting them from the very beginning and accepts Alfred’s body as he throws himself to the man, clutching at his chest as he screamed, a large hand running up and down his back to soothe him.

“I was so scared, Salvatore,” He chokes out. It was the truth, he was scared. Terrified, beyond belief. He never had an experience with shoot-outs so close, where he’s no longer an onlooker but on one side of the conflict where being hit by the cross-fire no longer became a chance but a certainty because he was directly involved.

“It’s alright to be afraid,” Salvatore says over his cries.

“To be afraid is to be human.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am also a pathological liar.
> 
> Wasn’t expecting this chapter to be so long, goddamn. Honest to god wanted to chop it off at Arthur asking Alfred out to lunch but mind goes “NO, this is not how chapter 3 goes, you’re gonna miss the moral of the chapter!” So, slave to my own mind, I continued to write. Until we got to where we were. Yes, Sally’s other eye is…not there. He’s blind on one eye and uses one of those porcelain eyeballs. Uh, what else, uh yes! Every chapter has a “moral”, like some point its trying to prove. IDK. I’m weird like that. Go figure them out in every chapter of my fic and you’ll get a reward if you got them right. I’m serious.
> 
> “Italian cuisine is exotic”: Give Alfred a break. The kid’s EIGHT. He’s also raised in poverty and spent a lot of years working all day to get beaten and fed like one slice of bread so of course he doesn’t know much fancy food. Some street kids doesn’t even know how to open a bottle of coke, I’ve seen some and cried for them. Harder to help them out when you’ll stop and try to fumble on your wallet for money and they’ll suddenly grab it from your hands and dash to the crowd. Bye wallet. Hope that kid used the money for food. Our system is fucked up.
> 
> “What is Carbonara and Alfredo”: Again, Alfred wouldn’t know any of these because of the aforementioned above.
> 
> “Alfred calling menu cards cardboards”: Refer to above, please.
> 
> EDIT AS OF 12/06/16: Added a bunch of doodles by me (aph-nitroplush@tumblr)
> 
> Pls don't repost my pics anywhere. You can reblog them from my hetalia tumblr (aph-nitroplush) under the tag #reg arts tho, if you want


	4. Chapter 4

            The help comes as fast as Arthur had expected, some of his men breaking into the building from where Salvatore and Alfred left. A pair was quick on their feet once they had seen him, pale and breathing hard from his hiding spot, good hand red with drying blood as they clutch at the semi-automatic Salvatore had left him for protection. He’s almost out of ammunition. His injury had made his other arm completely useless.

He was immediately taken out of the vicinity before the fight ever came to a conclusion. His health is their highest priority right now.

Arthur can estimate that it took about five hours to get him fixed, the doctor warning him on putting too much pressure on his injury and avoid getting it wet. Once he had agreed to every condition, every caution he had to take for full recovery, his arm was put in a sling and told the rest of his men that he’s good to go.

Once he was seated comfortably in his new car, the old one out of commission for a while because of all the cleaning it needs to be done on it, he finally gets to ask.

“How was it?” Arthur inquires, turning his head slightly to look one of his men that flanked his sides. His mind mildly supplied him that he had known that face before, recognised from those Salvatore who picked to accompany them sometimes in some skirmishes and the like. The name, however, it draws blank.

As usual.

What is the point of knowing their names or even faces when in the end they’ll die anyway? These people are merely pawns, expandable.

Everyone always is.

Oblivious to Arthur’s train of thought, the man directs his attention from the window towards Arthur’s, making slight eye contact before lowering his head in an obvious sign of respect.

“All cleared, Sir. We got three alive for interrogation.” He seems to choke on his own spit for a moment as he swallows audibly, the ball in his throat bobbing as he does so. “They were a bunch of kids, Sir.”

Arthur’s face turns sour, his lips thinning into a straight line.

“Teenagers?”

His subordinate seemed to get startled at Arthur’s good guess, head perking up to gaze into his eyes for a moment before looking back on the ground once more. “Y, yes, Sir.”

Arthur exhales in exhaustion. First was the stupid work, then when he was supposed to be using this day to relax, he had to deal with a stupid ambush only to realise a bunch of teenagers were behind said stupid ambush.

And now one of his arms is useless. Temporarily, but it’s still a pain.

So much shit he had to deal with, dear Lord. Just thinking about them all makes his head hurt already, making him raise his good hand to knead at the crease forming between his brows. Frowning so much will make him look so old…

He sighs, loudly, surprising both men flanking his sides, their attention all focused on him as Arthur shifts in his seat to rest his back on the soft cushion behind him. He tilts his head to the ceiling, staring at the grey interior of the vehicle.

“Don’t bother, they were from Vargas.” He says, after a long pause.

“Sir?”

“I said, don’t bother to ask whom they work for. They were obviously from Vargas.” He sighs again, tiredly though his nose, he mutters to himself, “Those two probably doesn’t even know about this. A bunch of teenagers took the initiative because they think its easy pick,” _what with me sitting in one of their establishments of all things with one guard, of course stupid kids will think that, won’t they?_

Stupid kids and their stupid ideas, always looking for an easy way out.

That is not how the world works, Arthur thinks angrily. He finds himself breathing out through his nose loudly, thinking, then when he had finally decided, he sits up properly, back straight and good hand resting on his lap, like his usual posture. He announces to his men present on, “You know what, never mind. I’ll take care of this _stupid_ thing myself. Take me to those idiots.”

 

            Arthur was brought to a deserted area, outside of the city.

The alleged culprits were outright crying, their faces swollen and young, dirty from all the blood and tears and snot. Asking for forgiveness, for saying that the Vargases doesn’t have any beef with them anyway, so why not let them go? Kirkland’s alive isn’t he?

They didn’t mean it, they said.

Oh yeah, apparently Arthur doesn’t need to tell his men earlier that these kids were from Vargas. They were quick to admit after a strike or two, but that doesn’t mean Arthur’s men had to stop with the beating, do they? It’s the least they could do after that stupid stunt these idiots had to pull at the restaurant. Knowing the Vargas brothers, Arthur thought, they’ll have to clean it up themselves again.

The teens’ pleas fell on deaf ears as one of their comrades was shot to the leg, the teen screaming in pain and falling immediately on his hands and knees, his fellows crying harder and shaking like leaves. One of the uninjured teens lets go of their shovel from the shock. It’s as if they had never seen this kind of cruelty before.

Arthur, thinking that these were teenagers of all things and were serving under Vargas, thinks that they truly probably didn’t. Must’ve even joined to replay the stupid things they see on the television, too, didn’t they?

_Stupid, Stupid._

“Finished with your graves yet?” He announces, eyes slightly blinking due to the strong gusts of wind. The teens all jump at his voice, all sniffling and shaking and Arthur absently notes that it was indeed chilly this evening as he feels his body shudder, too weak and vulnerable at the moment and he absently tugs at the jacket---new and bloodless---draped over his shoulders.

His men who were taking care of the teens at the moment, notices him too, of course and calls him at attention. They all gaze at him for recognition, for the job well done and Arthur wasn’t vain enough not to nod and give them the satisfaction. Being a good leader means you had to be firm and kind; it’s all a matter of balance, really.

At Arthur’s nod, they all seem to preen, one was eager to relay the current state of things and Arthur attentively listens, nodding at every pause to show his full attention.

When all was said and done, Arthur hums in thought, walking slowly towards each of the teens who visibly shrank in their places, their crying have stopped but the tears remained to drip from their frightened eyes. Arthur couldn’t help himself but smile at those faces, his teeth revealing themselves when he started to grin.

His smile was supposed to put these boys at ease, with how friendly they are, but knowing who he is, the man who literally had their lives in his hands now, it wasn’t so friendly anymore. It was like staring at the face of death himself as he smiles down at you, about to put down God’s judgement.

Right now, Arthur is their God.

Arthur slowly turns his eyes down at the ground, pretending to examine their work and clicks his tongue mockingly in disapproval, head turning left and right, his good hand on his chin to complete the look of a teacher examining a student’s work.

“This won’t do at all.” He mutters to himself but says it loudly, for the teens to hear.

He then turns his head back to each of them, his face empathetic as he coos, “I guess you don’t have to die tonight,” He tells them, shrugging. He delightfully notes how each of them started to relax, their shoulders sagging in apparent relief, their eyes widening in gratitude.

Arthur thinks one was about to open their mouth, to thank him, perhaps, but he turns his back to them before the teen even manages to say it and he announces to his men, a horrible frown replacing his smile, he motions his hand for dismissal, “Cut off their thumbs and send them home. That’s enough message for the Vargas brothers and any of their stupid recruits.”

The fearful cries of the teens that followed were deliberately ignored, Arthur turning his head towards them to look back, that pleasant smile back on his face but not quite reaching his eyes. He raises his good hand and wiggles his fingers in farewell and hops back into his vehicle, motioning for his chauffeur to send him on his way.

“To Alfred,” He tells him.

 

            Arthur opens the door of Alfred’s penthouse with a pained gasp, a tad shocked at the sight before him. Alfred had come running, hands on his eyes as he cried, screaming. He stumbles; about to fall but Arthur was quick to grab on to the boy’s shoulder, righting him back up.

Alfred suddenly perks up at the touch; head straightens up and blinks those swollen red eyes, tears dripping down red cheeks. His mouth opens and closes, making small noises, trying to speak up but unsure of what words to say.

Arthur lowers down, his knees on the ground so that his eyes were level to Alfred. Just seeing the boy was enough to soothe his aches, make him feel like the entire day didn’t happen. He slightly tilts his head to the side, looking up into those large eyes, blinking slowly at them before smiling.

“Arthur,” He tells Alfred.

The boy blinks, his tears starting to dry. His lips quiver, mouth opening once again, speaking words but with no sound, trying to taste the words on his tongue before letting it lose. A moment later, he manages to stutter out, “A, Ar…thur.”

“Yes,” Arthur says, nodding once in what he can only describe as happiness. “Arthur, that’s me.” There is just something enthralling with finally hearing the boy call him by his name. He absently recalls to himself that he hadn’t really heard Alfred ever call him, did he? He felt his heart beat loudly in his chest, his head on cloud nine.

This is what love feels like, doesn’t it?

Then looking the boy over, all dried tears and distress, Arthur frowns in concern, he asks, “Are you alright?” His hand comes up to brush over the boy’s head, then his cheeks, wiping the tears away with his thumb with gentleness like Alfred was something precious and fragile. He probably is. He silently notes how Alfred doesn’t shy away from him anymore. Strange.

Alfred shakes his head silently, eyes on Arthur’s. Arthur’s brows furrow at this, standing up slowly with a grunt, his left shoulder aching.

“You weren’t hurt from before?” He adds, a little worried for the answer. He sighs in relief when he immediately received a shake of the boy’s head.

“Were you?” Arthur blinks. He peers into the boy’s eyes, looking for anything, curious as to what brought this on. Of all things Alfred could say to him after such an ordeal, it’s about his well-being.

To be honest, it left Arthur speechless. He finds himself wide-eyed, blinking and mouth slightly agape, opening and closing as he tried to look for words. Alfred remained to look at him inquisitively, eyes wide and gleaming in what Arthur could describe as worry as those blue eyes glance at his sling and his shoulder where the injury is supposed to be.

“I—I’m fine, thanks for asking.” He blurts out.

Alfred nods at his answer, doesn’t say anything else but his face tells Arthur he wanted to ask for more. Arthur chose not to push, though. He wasn’t sure on what he’ll do if the boy continued to ask things about his health. They really weren’t the most important thing to worry about when you’re most likely to die at the hands of fellow men rather than nature.

Arthur smiles at Alfred and pats his head, then moves to stand up.

“Where’s Sally?” He asks to no one in particular, looking around the room, eyes straining to the doors to the other rooms in the penthouse, looking for anything that will tell him of Sally’s presence.

Alfred was silent, rubbing at his wet cheeks and eyes. Looking down at the ground and refused to answer.

Then, in a matter of seconds, Alfred seemed to shake in his spot and not a minute later, he’s back to sobbing, his face cupped by his hands.

It made Arthur worry.

“Sally!” He calls out, looking around. Waiting for anything: sounds or the man himself, running to Arthur at attention like the usual.

There’s none of those.

“Sally!” He calls out again. Arthur’s worry go for the worse, making him finally move from his place but making sure Alfred is not out of his sight. He stalks around the room, calling out to the rooms. “Sally!”

He was too afraid to actually leave Alfred and look for the man himself so he resorted to screaming the man’s name, worry and terror obvious from his voice, hand grasping for his wounded shoulder for comfort.

“Sally! Where the fuck are you?” _I’m scared_.

It took a few more moments before Sally finally reveals himself to Arthur, slowly coming out of the living room---right where Alfred came from before he bumped into Arthur earlier. At the sight of the man in question, Arthur finds himself sighing in relief and releasing a shaky exhale. His lips were trembling as they quirk up into a smile but was quick to turn down into a scowl when he notices the other man’s face.

That disgusting hole is present and the porcelain eyeball that was supposed to keep said hole hidden was gone and was instead placed on one of his hands. He obviously knows he was in the wrong, with the way he had his head down, trying not to look at Arthur in the eye.

No wonder it took him so long when Arthur called for him.

Suddenly his relief was washed down, his entire being boiling from anger. He had so much to deal with today and to end his day; Sally makes a boy cry because he’s missing a fucking eye.

“Why the fuck did you show him that?” He screams, his hand waving angrily towards Alfred, still crying in his spot. Arthur was satisfied to see Sally flinch at his outburst. At least the bastard was guilty.

Sally, who still had his head turned down, merely shrugs one of his shoulders weakly.

“He asked.” He all but mumbled.

Arthur snorts angrily, turning his back on Sally and stomps towards Alfred who remained standing on his spot. Arthur kneels down, eyes level to Alfred once again. He shushes Alfred, hand coming up slowly to ruffle his hair, absently brushing stray locks and putting them in places to make Alfred’s messy hair look neat. His brows furrow at that one little spot of hair on his head, that little bit by his bangs that refused to go down and stay still. Stubborn thing.

Alfred’s cries slowly dies down, large eyes on Arthur’s face. He was about to raise his hands and scrub at his face again but Arthur grabs a hold of the both of them before they actually do damage to that red face. He holds them gently in his one functioning hand, smiles to himself at how warm and small they are, how they fit so well on his hand.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he tells Alfred, voice low so as not to startle. Alfred remains silent, swallowing as he slowly turns his head towards Sally. He then jumps---in fear---whimpering and Arthur’s hand returns to Alfred’s cheeks, silencing the incoming cries to follow.

“Shhh, it’s alright. It’s healed.” Arthur tells him, hand ruffling Alfred’s head like how he would a scared puppy. When Alfred turns his head to look at Arthur again, he nods shakily at him. Arthur’s smile grows, knowing that the boy can now at least listen to him.

He cups Alfred’s cheek, “Look,” then he gently turns his head back towards Sally. “See,” Sally raises the porcelain eyeball, supporting Arthur’s claims.

“It’s not real?” Alfred squeaks.

Arthur laughs, “No, it isn’t.”

Alfred turns to look at Arthur, face inquisitive and eyes bright. “Is, Is he okay?”

Arthur looks at Sally and laughs again, “He asks if you are alright.” As Arthur relays what Alfred asked, the boy turns his head back towards Sally, waiting for his response.

Salvatore nods, brows furrowed in concern for Alfred. “Yes. It’s old, Alfred.”

“Hear that?” Alfred nods at Arthur.

“It’s late; you must be tired, aren’t you? Come on, let’s take you to bed.” Arthur stands up, pushing at his knees and grunting, relying on only one arm to carry his own weight is hard.

He offers his hand to Alfred, who stares at it for a moment in silence, debating to himself, before slowly raising a hand and gingerly grabbing Arthur’s fingers---long and big compared to his small hand.

Arthur tucks Alfred on his bed, making sure the blanket covers him from chest to toe completely, fluffing his pillows and the lights dimmed. He wipes at the boy’s drying tears on both cheeks, palm settling on a cheek before brushing his stray bangs and hooking some locks behind his ears.

“Don’t let Sally’s eye scare you anymore, alright?” he tells the boy, his eyes looking at Arthur’s unfocused, lids heavy from drowsiness. It seems that all those crying made him tired, Arthur notes in relief.

He turns his head towards Sally, standing right beside Arthur who was sitting at the bed. Arthur had his brows furrowed in annoyance and kicks the man in the shin before turning his head back to Alfred, Sally grunting behind them.

“Do that, if he scares you again. If he gets mad, he’ll answer to me. Hear that, Alfred. You are free to kick him in the shin if he scares you again.” Arthur smiles when the boy makes a slight nod at his words and he couldn’t help but kiss the boy’s head for it. He pats the boy’s cheek gently for good measure, fluffing the pillows beneath his head one last time before he nods at Sally and leave the room, to let the child get his well-deserved rest.

Closing the door with a gentle click of the knob, he motions at Sally, turning his head towards the living room.

Once they were settled in their seats, Sally was quick to speak, mouth opening to start his inquiry, only to have Arthur cut him off immediately, impatient, his hand waving Sally off carelessly, “It was the Vargas Brothers,”

Sally’s mouth remains opened, but then his brows furrow in question but again, Arthur cuts him off with another answer, “Don’t bother, I bet my supplies of rum that those idiots doesn’t even know of the attempt.”

“It was a bunch of stupid teenagers. You know their type.” Arthur adds with finality, slumping on his seat in exasperation. He hears Sally do the same on his seat, humming in deep thought.

“I was about to ask ‘How’s your shoulder’, actually.” Arthur snorts, rolling his eyes. He knows Sally was being sincere about it though, but sometimes, habit is hard to shrug off.

“What do you think?” He gestures at his sling. Sally shrugs, then opens his mouth.

“What did you do to them?” He asks and Arthur laughs to himself in amusement.

“Had their thumbs chopped off. Let’s see if we’ll see them ever again.” He was laughing lowly to himself by the time he finishes his sentence, imagining their pitiful faces when they begged and cried for mercy at his feet.

Sometimes, people make quite the amusing sight.

He giggles when he sees Sally’s amused smile from the corner of his eyes. Sally’s smile grows into an amused grin, kind of timid, but amused, nonetheless and it makes Arthur happy seeing that look on the other man’s face. Sally asks, “And how are you supposed to explain that once it gets to the Vargas brothers?”

Arthur snorts, shifting on his seat until he’s completely lying on the couch, his back facing the television.

“Your brother wouldn’t be much of a problem to deal with, really.”

“I don’t have a brother,” Sally was quick to correct, making Arthur chuckle, satisfied with the answer. He closes his eyes, grunting as he shifts again to find a better position where his body isn’t pressing on his injury too much, which was on his back, facing the ceiling. He raises his uninjured hand to cover the bright fluorescent light that was hitting his eyes and smiles to himself, “Yes, you don’t, don’t you?”

He turns his head towards Sally, bright eyes squinting in delight, “You only have me.”

 

            The problem, as Sally had previously warned Arthur, came in the form of Antonio Fernandez-Carriedo, all scowls and hard looks as he was escorted into one of Arthur’s empty conference rooms, demanding a good reason for what he did to the Vargas brothers’ new recruits.

To be honest, Arthur was surprised it took him a couple of weeks before he finally comes to him. He had expected no less than three days.

Things must’ve been busy on their side of the business too, it seems.

Arthur greets him with a pleasant smile, calling one of the serving ladies present in the room to serve the man any beverage he would ask for, because he’s a generous man and a gentleman. Not all mob bosses are barbarians, contrary to what films says about them.

Antonio sits at the far end of the table, opposite from Arthur’s seat, bringing about one hell of a distance between them. It doesn’t lessen the horrible expression on the other man’s face and it doesn’t do anything to lessen the pleasantry in Arthur’s either.

He nods, raising his hand to tell the other that he may now start talking.

“You know why I’m here,” He says, low in his throat, in the verge of growling. It appears like it was taking all of his entire being from stopping himself from throttling Arthur and his sickening smile there and then, fuck being civil and all that rot.

“Of course I do,” Arthur replies, calmly pouring his tea from his expensive tea set, biscuits and all. He takes his time sipping on his cup as he revels in the way the other man seethes in front of him, waiting for a proper answer.

Once finished, he settles the cup down back to its saucer, the china clacking lovely despite the silence of the tense atmosphere of the room.

“I came into one of your,” Arthur pauses, looking at Antonio up and down before continuing, “charges’ _fine_ establishments to simply enjoy what it has to offer, nothing more and nothing less.” He ends, reaching into one of the plates to grab a biscuit and take an ample bite. He hums in delight, “Hm, these biscuits really go well with this tea, you should try some.” He tells Antonio, waving the biscuit around and nodding at the serving lady standing by the door, motioning to give Antonio some of his servings.

“I don’t want your stupid tea,” Antonio growls, making the serving lady flinch and jump back, looking between Antonio and Arthur fearfully, unsure of what to do when she was only doing as she was told.

Arthur frowns, nodding at the serving lady to back away at which she nods at in relief, doing as told. “You shouldn’t be so rude; she’s only doing what I told her to.” Then Arthur’s frown becomes severe, “As your men should.”

Antonio’s expression doesn’t change. “They’re _kids_.”

“Children have no place in our world. If they’re here, then they are children no longer.” He picks the napkin folded neatly on his table, using it to wipe off the crumbs off his hands as he stands up, walking slowly towards his guest.

“We all know,” He gives the other man a look that says ‘tell me otherwise’, “that the very reason they join is so that they will be treated as an equal.” Arthur shrugs. “I just treated them how I would any adult who would be in their place.” He pulls at the a chair next to Antonio, turning it around so that the backrest faces Antonio before he sits on it, resting his arms on the top of the backrest. He hums in thought, “Actually, I treated them kindly.”

“I let them live.”

“Their thumbs are missing.”

Arthur nods, resting his head on his arms. “It’s a good way to teach children some lessons though, isn’t it?” It leaves Antonio speechless, mouth opening and closing as he tries to look for words. When he growls, slamming his arms on the table, Arthur grins, standing up and turning his back Antonio, arms raising into a humoured shrug, walking away, back to his previous seat.

“You crazy bastard…” Antonio growls, hands raised, about to attack Arthur from behind.

Before he could throw himself at Arthur, however, his arms were suddenly grabbed and he was pushed into the wooden table, his arms twisted painfully behind him.

“Salvatore,” He manages to choke out, the man in question didn’t say anything in response, only pressed his body harder into Antonio’s, making the other man gasp and choke out. Arthur chuckles in the background, making Antonio clench his jaw, teeth clacking as he grunted.

“Sally, always such a satisfactory!” Arthur applauses, giving Sally a good pat on the shoulder. Arthur nods at Sally, silently telling him to let Antonio go, at which he does, silently and obediently.

“See this, Antonio?” He says, wrapping his hand around Sally’s shoulder and using his free hand to pat Sally on the chest who doesn’t even make the slightest indication of discomfort, the image of a true guard dog. Arthur knows it does nothing but rile the other man up and since Sally doesn’t give a rat’s arse on what Arthur does in front of Antonio, he does whatever he can to piss him off.

Sally belongs to him and no one else’s.

“This is the prime example of perfect obedience.” He then wraps his other hand around Sally’s waist so that he’s completely all over him now. He shakes his head ruefully at Antonio, “If Sally can do it, I don’t quite see why yours can’t. And that, my friend, is why your men deserved what came to them. They’re stupid.”

He leans his head on Sally chest, looking up at the other as he blinks his eyes up innocently at him, “Isn’t that right, Sally?”

Sally grunts in agreement and it chips off the last of Antonio’s patience, making him scream in anger. He pulls Arthur away from Sally, making Arthur gasp in surprise, not expecting the action from the other man but it doesn’t make him the least amusing right now, making Arthur laugh to himself as he was pulled apart from Sally.

“Don’t talk like he isn’t here, you crazy bastard!”

“Oh, please,” Arthur retorts, absently brushing down his clothes for any dust and wrinkles. “It’s not like he’s not alright with it.”

“And really, ‘crazy bastard’? That is so old. Go think of a new one, it’s tiring.”

“Stop trying to distract me from our conversation, Kirkland.”

“Ooh, we’re back to last names now? Can I still get to call you ‘Antonio’ though? I don’t really get ‘Fernandez-Carriedo’ if I’m being honest.”

Antonio was about to retort, but Arthur stops him, raising his hand, palm flat. He internally laughs at how unconsciously obedient Antonio is, no matter who it was he was answering to. He doesn’t even mean it, just reflex, from old man Vargas’ teachings back in the day.

“No matter what you do, Antonio, my words wouldn’t change: I was attacked unprovoked, my life was threatened and my men only did as they should at such a situation. I also did my part, protecting my men and my honor. They reaped what they had sowed.” He pushes his pointer finger at Antonio’s chest to further stress his point before he nods at Sally and turns away, heading for the exit, Sally at his heels.

“Wait!” Antonio says, making Arthur pause but not enough to turn his head for him.

“I want to talk to my brother, at least.”

Arthur smiles, humming in amusement. “Brother?”

Antonio growls, “I mean Salvatore and you know it!”

“Well, I don’t know about a brother,” Arthur laughs low in his throat, finally deciding to turn his head but towards Sally. “But if Sally allows it…” Arthur pauses, his expression considering.

“Do you?” He asks Sally.

Sally doesn’t turn his head to give Antonio even a small glance. He slowly shakes his head. Arthur exhales and bites the inside of his cheek.

“Well, you heard him. Let’s go, Sally.”

“Arthur!” It makes Arthur pause again, hand on the door knob. Antonio’s pleads sounded so desperate---so real---it’s like he truly cares for a brother who isn’t really there. Not anymore, anyway. It makes Arthur sigh in defeat, “Alright. Sally will talk to you. Take your time, I don’t care.”

He slams the door closed, the words settling uncomfortably on his tongue.

 

            “Salvatore…”

Antonio breathes out, hand slightly reaching out to Salvatore. He couldn’t do anything but sigh quietly, settling on one of the chairs and the other does the same. Now that the Boss had told him to, he had no choice but to pretend he was even listening to any of Antonio’s words.

“I don’t want to talk to you.” He tells Antonio, making the other man frown, brows furrowing in concern.

“I, I know.” Antonio replies, turning his head down in what looks like guilt, his hands on his head as he does so.

“Arthur…” He starts, wetting his lip. “He didn’t force you into anything you didn’t want, did he?”

Salvatore gives him a pointed look. “Never.”

It makes Antonio blink before exhaling deeply, nodding to himself and raising a hand to run them through his messy hair---messier and thicker and darker than the Boss’. There are times Salvatore thinks how alike they are, but it all comes to an end when their appearances are placed right next to each other.

For one, the Boss had never been merciful. He doesn’t know what mercy is or what it means, always too happy to deliver poetic justice to anything and anyone he deems deserving. Sometimes even finds _any_ kind of reason just to do it. It keeps him sane, Salvatore guesses.

Antonio though, he isn’t like the Boss, no matter what anyone said.

He’s just as ruthless and just as mad, sometimes, when the occasion strikes but not as much as he used to when he was younger. The Boss had always acted like he did when he was a young boy, fresh from all things bad and cruel and so resentful of the world he steps on. Antonio at least somewhat managed to mellow down throughout the years, the bad blood all but a distant past.

He’s more than happy to reconcile.

As for Salvatore…

He doesn’t like Antonio.

He never considered them brothers, never saw them anything but casual acquaintances. Antonio is just a somebody his Boss knows. Had been enemies and allies in the past but all those things were purely political and nothing else.

He doesn’t see any reason why Salvatore should make-peace with a man who never knew he existed until he had his throat slit by said estranged brother.

Not that Antonio knows they were brothers back then.

Half-brothers, to be more precise.

He was just some bastard child Antonio’s father sired after raping some low-class whore. There’s nothing much interesting of a story to tell. How Antonio managed to connect the dots that weren’t there, he doesn’t know how.

It was probably because they look so much alike.

“Right, right…” Antonio says under his breath, pressing his face on his hands, sighing. He seems to have ran out of words to say, which further proves Salvatore’s point how moot this conversation is to begin with.

But Antonio is persistent, and it shows with how he manages to keep eye-contact, no sign of fear or caution on his expression as he looks at Salvatore.

His hands were shaking, fighting the urge to reach for the thin line of slightly protruded skin on his neck. The lines were pale, almost unnoticeable with how thin they are, so straight and well-cut, it wraps around Antonio’s neck like a perfect choker. Salvatore remembers how young the Boss was when he told Salvatore that he wants “the stupid spaniard’s head cut clean on his platter the next morning”.

Salvatore may have some contribution to Antonio’s “mellowing out”, he thinks, still waiting for Antonio’s word. He’s not interested in starting small talks with a person he doesn’t want to talk to, anyway. He remains silent, tilting his head to the side as he rests his arms on either of his thighs, looking up at Antonio’s eyes, green and bright but duller, compared to the Boss’ shade. It looks so much like his, when he used to own a pair.

He remembers how the Boss remarked that the shade of his eyes were so hard to come by that no good artist can ever capture them, as he had been given the prosthetic for the first time.

“I just…” Antonio begins. He seems at a loss of words and if this keeps up, Salvatore may just lose his patience and walk out that door any time soon. He presses his lips together into a straight line, frowning as he focuses his eyes on Antonio as the other continued to be silent and brooding, looking at him in concern like he really needs it.

“Just say it already.” _And let’s get this over and done with, so I can leave_. He finally says. It makes Antonio blink again, his body slightly jumping, startled at Salvatore’s voice after so long of him being silent. It makes Salvatore’s frown grow severe at the thought.

The frown on Salvatore’s face mirrors that of Antonio’s by then, but his was more of concern, again that makes Salvatore so angry and annoyed. At least Antonio looks as impatient  as he is now, exhaling loudly through his nose.

“I don’t want you following him.” He breathes out as he slowly looks up at Salvatore.

“I want to.” He replies, giving Antonio a look that dares him to say otherwise.

Antonio’s concern melts into anger, teeth bared. He throws his hand up, slamming on the table’s surface. “What does he have that I don’t? He doesn’t even treat you right!”

At this, Salvatore felt himself sigh, eyes mentally rolling behind the back of his head. People are ridiculous, he thinks. Not everything can be spelled out in first glance.

The Boss needs him and he needs the Boss. It’s not something simple that can easily be seen.

And it wasn’t like the Boss makes him do things he doesn’t really want. Sometimes.

Salvatore realises he had been silent for far too long, his silence taken as a silent agreement, fear of the Boss, perhaps. Antonio looks at him with something like pity and it annoys him, to see that kind of look on someone whom he doesn’t need sympathy from.

Nothing binds them to each other but blood and for someone who has lived for as long and suffered as much like Salvatore, he knows it doesn’t weigh anything.

“Just leave me alone.” He mumbles under his breath, doesn’t really know how to talk to this man at all. He stands up, which prompts the other to do the same, about to follow him, try to convince him into something he doesn’t really want from the beginning.

He pushes Antonio away, glaring at him as he passes by him and heads straight for the door. He was about to push it open when Antonio speaks again, “Don’t you want to be free?”

It makes Salvatore pause. Free, he said.

He pretends to think it over, then snorting, he turns his head towards Antonio, all worried and ignorant and weak and replies, “I already am.”

He doesn’t wait for the other to reply, closing the door gently behind as he goes, searching for the Boss once outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Something about Salvatore’s eye: ** **His right eye is _gone_. As in it wasn’t there anymore. Instead of wearing an eyepatch to look cool, he’s wearing an ocular prosthetic because that’ll get less attention and Arthur really hates seeing that “hole on his face”. Brings back horrible memories to times long gone, I guess. Also the prosthetic was slightly darker compared to his real irises but it wasn’t really noticeable unless you look hella close. Last I heard, ocular prosthetics have no problems in capturing your eye color and stuff, so no one would really know they’re prosthetics unless you take them off. Arthur just have some weird heterochromia kink.**
> 
> ** Salvatore accidentally scaring Alfred with his eye socket: ** **Salvatore knows what he did. He knows it SO well. He has a sick fascination with scaring little kids with his eye-socket and Arthur knows about it so he makes sure Salvatore isn’t stuck in a room with a kid without Arthur in there to tweak his ears.**
> 
> ** The author’s comment on this chapter: ** **This is the dreaded filler chapter because no usuk interaction (much) but it had to be written because plot. Made my sister critic and the only thing she really complained about was the lack of usuk porn. Prolly on chapter 5 or 6. Not really sure.**

**Author's Note:**

> okay at first I've been snorting to myself because I think I'm so witty for choosing "seduction of the innocent" as title for this little garbage as reference to that book written by this one dude with the same title that has this part in his book that basically says batman and robin are gay and batman is gross for enganging with an 8-year old. See. I thought I was funny.  
> But really tho....the title was fitting if you think about it...(well if I manage to finish this too, then you'll start seeing the connection)....wait was I saying again
> 
> sorry again for the short...thingy. Real life, yanno? It's been cruel to me these past few weeks. My head won't stop hurting and my eyes has been more sensitive to light than usual and I regularly get heat strokes...not to mention I forget to eat so....
> 
> wait why am I saying that


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